


Grey's Anatomy

by cranky__crocus



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-27
Updated: 2010-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:17:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranky__crocus/pseuds/cranky__crocus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Addison relives one of the most frightening days of her life. She shares the stories with a patient and interested Erica Hahn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grey's Anatomy

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as I was watching through Grey's Anatomy the first time, reliving the events through two of my favourite characters. A lot of it is mushy and corny and ridiculous. It's just a rehash in a new way, I suppose.

I.

 

            “Okay, let me get this straight,” Erica drawls out, pulling a Southern twang out of hiding for no apparent reason. “You heard from Kerev who heard from Izzie that Yang was supporting Mer and Mer said, ‘She’s got my McDreamy. And my McDog. She’s got my McLife!’”

            Erica’s theatrics are hilarious to me. Who knew a supposedly stuck-up, terminally serious surgeon could have a flare for theatrics? Well, when the theatrics are in the name of mockery, at least.

“Precisely that,” I affirm. “I...am a walking McDonalds add.”

            She looks me up and down and licks her lips. “Slim ad.”

            “Then she complained about her conditioner not working and possibly having brittle bones.”

            “That sums up Mer,” Hahn surmised. “Bones and hair on par as love-of-the-life having a wife.”

            “Poet.”

            Erica’s eyebrows rose. “I am _not_ stooping to the level of replying, ‘you know it,’ so don’t hold your breath.”

 

 

II.

 

            “It sounds like you had an exciting day that day.”

            “That day? ‘Exciting’ doesn’t cover it.” I shake my head but keep on track with my short blips of stories. Working out, we’ve decided, is easier with amusement. “So they were standing outside the door while I was inspecting her cervix.”

            “They peeped on _Bailey_?” Erica huffs as she pounds the stair machine.

            “Like old perverts, yup, that’d be the men. Derek, Webber and George.”

            “You see a lot of them,” I hear through pants. There’s a lull and I realise she’s taking a break.

            “A lot of the boys? No, not since I moved.”

            She laughs and shakes her head, leaning forward with her weight on her knees. I envy her stationary situation as I jog on the treadmill.

            “A lot of cervix. A lot of female anatomy,” she clarifies.

            It’s my turn to chuckle. “Yes, I most certainly do. Would make you think I couldn’t pull off being anything other than straight, yet here I am, a bisexual vagina-viewer.”

            “Glad you only had to see Bailey’s.”

            “I didn’t. Had to see Cristina’s too.” I sigh at the memory of Cristina’s forced abortion, despite that she would have had it regardless of the problem.

            “You saw Yang’s wang?” Hahn retorts. I throw my water bottle at her and she catches it. She slaps herself lightly on the wrist. “I know, bad bad. Yang wasn’t a man. Can’t make fun of powerful women by calling them men, it’s hypocritical. Memo noted and memorised.”

            “Good girl. Treats are in the cupboard.” I’m chuckling again. “Bailey and Yang are it for the Gang, though. The amount of time Mer spent in that room...I think she got a good look too. But they’re best friends; it’s probably not surprising.”

            “Can you imagine having to see _hers_?” she hypothesises, grinning ear to ear.

            “What, Grey’s anatomy?” I blink. Commence huge, goofy grin. “Using Gray’s Anatomy on Grey’s anatomy. Ridiculous.”

            We both listen to what I’d just said and laugh our little workout-sore rears off. Grey’s anatomy. What an absurd pun, but perfectly fitting of Mer’s material. We all appreciate a few medical puns here and there.

 

 

III.

 

            “Wait, she went through dilation _without pain medication_?” Erica repeats from the reclining bicycle. “That’s crazy! Why not take advantage of modern technology and an epidural?”

            “She said there were women still delivering babies in their own homes with buckets of hot water and scissors,” I attempt to quote. “She also didn’t enjoy the thought of increased chance of C-section.”

            “Well that confirms it: she’s crazy.”

            “That’s what I said, but I wasn’t the one in labour.”

            “Also intelligent,” she compliments with a quirked grin and sweat spotting her forehead.

            “Shut up, baby hater.”

            Her shoulder shrug while pumping the pedals of a fake bicycle is somehow incredibly attractive.

 

 

IV.

 

            She’s looking at me strangely now, her eyebrows perched and stuck in stone with her lips slightly parted. I laugh.

            “She was in a bathrobe screaming about her _vagina_ in the corridor and all they could do was grin stupidly at each other and dance about her being back?” she questions, mopping her forehead with a small towel.

            “Affirmative. Crazy men can’t do a damn thing without a strong, domineering woman around. They’re fooling themselves when they think they’re the powerful sex.” I lean back. I have just about had it with the stair machine. I’m itching for a soak in the tub.

            “Amen,” Erica drawls out with a salute. Her features showcase amused contemplation. “I wonder if we’d get that celebratory feel if _I_ went back.”

            “The Wicked Witch of the West and best McHardcore ever seen?” I respond once I’ve remembered her nicknames. “I think if you agreed to let one assist on one surgery, they’d be singing your praise for days.”

            “That’s the problem, see, with the singing I’d get a headache bad enough to seek out McDreamy or a hammer, whichever I touched first.”

            I laugh. She’d probably go for the hammer. I remark, “Callie could sing it better for you.”

            Her face lights up. “That she could. It would almost, _almost_ be worth it. But I’m still not a big fan of singing.”

            So I serenade her. The water bottle flies back my way, but it’s followed by a kiss presumably to shut me up, so I don’t mind much.

 

 

V.

 

            It feels wonderful to be pulling off my sticky exercise clothes. I’m peeling them back as I glance at Erica, who is plucking at her clothes uselessly and looking slightly flushed.

            “What’s up?” I ask her. “We’ve done this a million times.”

            “You’re sure no neighbours will see?”

            It’s adorable that she’s self-conscious like this, given what a beautiful woman she is. She’s stunning. Half the hospital would pay to see her with even a portion unclothed. They would also never believe she is this vulnerable when it comes to her physical appearance.

            “No neighbours will see. Are you trying to rob _me_ of the sight?” I tease with what I hope is a charming smile. She giggles—yes, _giggles_ —and slips out of her shirt. I go on with my story while I’m concentrating on undressing and playing with the hot-tub fixtures, which I now admit I should have done before stripping.

            “Shit,” is her eloquent response to this portion of the story. “She was in labour and he had a _head injury_?”

            “It was serious stuff. Derek suggested we didn’t tell her until he could assess the damage, so we didn’t. Nothing felt right after that.”

            “Tell me about it.”

            So I do as we move.

            I clamber up the steps of the tub and dip my toes in the water. It is gloriously warm. I’m in to my ankles when she’s out of her clothes. I note with a smile that hers are neatly folded in a pile stacked largest up to smallest on a chair while mine are haphazardly thrown around the walled deck.

            She climbs up when I’m submerged up to my shoulders, hair up in a loose bun on the top of my head. Hers is braided in a ponytail and coiled. I think she looks like a librarian, which really works for her. Especially being a naked librarian.

            Erica lounges back against me in the tub, my legs wrapped around her hips and down near her knees. It is the most wonderful feeling. I loll off into silence as I concentrate entirely on the physical closeness. She doesn’t seem to mind and devotes her attention to rubbing my thighs. I reach around and massage any body part of hers I can find.

 

 

VI.

 

            “If giving birth means a backrub like this from you, sign me up for pregnancy,” Erica groans out as my hand rocks over the small of her back. Her hands are stretching up in the air naturally and it reminds me of my assistance for Bailey.

            When I feel I’ve finished I wrap my arms around her waist and press myself to her. She drops her arms and lifts her hands behind her head to let her fingertips massage my hair.

            “I spent a lot of time doing that to Bailey,” I admit. “She was mighty stubborn about not going for that epidural.”

            “But I bet she didn’t out-stubborn your requests regarding it.”

            I shake my head and blow on the fine hairs standing straight on the back of her neck.

            “You can bet she didn’t. She didn’t try to. She’s not an idiot, not like George.”

            “George? You haven’t called _him_ an idiot before,” she idly notes as she turns and swaps our positions to rest against the board and pull me toward her front. I let her move my body, comfortable to have it in her control.

            “His response to her complaints and speech about women giving birth at home? That many women die at home giving birth!”

            “I can only imagine the look on your face at that.”

            I turn around and give it to her. A look of speechlessness, disbelief, disappointment and dark humour. She laughs.

            “Don’t have to imagine it anymore, thanks.”

            “You’re welcome.” I smile. “Thankfully he knew he was a dolt and immediately admitted he couldn’t believe he had just said that. He beat me to it.”

            “Impressive.”

            “But that’s when the shit hit the fan, anyway,” I relay with a frown. I turn to straddle her—not sexually, just as a manner to rest with eye contact. “Bailey berated him about not finding her husband. I saved him by telling her Tucker wasn’t there yet. I was sending George off when I got a page.”

            “Saved by the page?” Erica murmurs, using the well-known surgical phrase. I shake my head.

            “Doomed to apocalypse by the page, incidentally enough,” I correct. “Code black.”

            Her eyes widen in genuine shock, no playing or teasing. Her hands come to rest on my hips and I thrive under the comforting contact. Her speech sounds parched with shock. “Seriously? I’m glad you’re here today, then.”

            “Me too. Kerev was the one to save the day.”

            At her questioning eyes I explain the back story I was told later in the day.

 

 

VII.

 

            “The secrecy is a double-edged sword,” Erica announces as my head falls against her shoulder. “You couldn’t tell George _why_ he had to stop his complaints about lying to Bailey and you couldn’t explain the meaning of the page when they were both in the elevator, but their understanding of the whole situation was terrible without it. They didn’t even have a resident for instructions.  Talk about rock and hard place.”

            “All at the same time that I was told Bailey’s husband was in worse condition than previously believed.”

            “Bad work day.”

            “Understatement,” I inform her collarbone.

            I feel her jump suddenly and I look up to find her features shocked again, this time with sudden revelation. Now I’m perplexed.

            “I remember that day!” she exclaims, looking about both excitedly and frantically before she settles against me again. “I remember the overflow at Mercy West. I had to take an emergency valve replacement that was supposed to occur at Seattle Grace, but a trauma had knocked it out and then patients were exported from Grace.”

            “That would be the day,” I say with a sad nod. “The hospitals in the area had to take up our patients from the surgical wing. The general surgery amount wasn’t bad but other surgical specialties had more.”

            Storytelling is even easier when Erica actually remembers the repercussions of the event herself.

 

 

VIII.

 

            “So the apocalypse became sexy time?” Erica’s eyebrow has popped up again. I stroke it with a finger, then move the finger down to her cheek.

            “When Izzie is involved? Yes.” I smile. “I hear from Mer and George that Iz hadn’t had sex in 8 months and 12 days, and that very day, she decided she was going to become a ‘doer,’ not a ‘watcher.’ Apparently she meant doer a little more literally than most would think.”

            Erica looks contemplative. The news went against her Pre-Callie moral conduct codes for work—the blonde had slipped at Grace when Callie had offered her sex on the spot—but also had extenuating circumstances. At last she winces, one eye half-lidded as she stared at me as if in pain. “8 months and 12 days? Now I actually _know_ how painful that is. Slightly more understandable.”

            “To sex addicts.”

            “So...you?”

            I poke her cheek softly. “Touché.”

 

 

IX.

 

            “Fearing Bailey over fear of the Chief and the law...” Erica weighs, laughter in the lines of her face. “I can understand going with the first.”

            “Good. That is a wise decision. Hell hath no fury like a Miranda Bailey displeased. Even when she’s wrong, she’s powerful.”

            “The best of us are wrong from time to time.”

            I smile lazily. “And when the best of us are wrong, the mistakes are worse.”

            “Sadly true. The price of greatness.”

            My smile diminishes. “And one of her greatest traits was her surprising intuition and ability to read people. She read me when I checked on her.”

            “She got you to tell her where her husband was?”

            I nod. “I told her he was with my husband. It was in my face. She knew exactly what that meant.”

            “Damn intelligent women and their need to know things that will hurt them.”

            I press against her to silently voice my agreement and she holds me at the small of my back. Our conversations are rollercoaster, comfort to satire to love and devotion, up to the sky and down to the pits of hell. It’s how we function, how we communicate. She doesn’t mind another break from speech. It’s a hard day to re-tell, but I want to share it with her and she wants to hear it. Things move on. Each revisit scrapes off a bit more residual pain.

 

 

X.

 

            Erica goes pale—pal _er_ —as I explain my conversation with Webber and the other problematic events. Paramedic who grew wings in panic, Mer’s hand on the bomb, the then love-of-my-life a room over working on Bailey’s husband while Bailey suddenly refused to push through contractions.

            Then Erica does one of the most peculiar things I have ever seen. She laughs. She shoves her hands over her mouth, but it’s a second too late. I look at her in utter shock.

            I remember another small detail of the story. Suddenly the moment isn’t so strange anymore.

            “Izzie did that,” I notify her with a blank face. Erica looks up. I repeat, “Izzie did that. She laughed. She told George and Alex she had the wrong response to that sort of stress, but now, I don’t think she did. What else was there to do?”

            I blink. “I tried to get Webber to calm down. He wouldn’t. It didn’t actually help anything. George was Bambi-eyed. I was off my rocker. George and Alex were seeing and smelling things. Mer was making sarcastic, cynical, ironic comments...and Izzie was having sex and laughing.”

            Finally I’ve started and I just cannot stop. Erica and I explode together. It isn’t gleeful laughter, and it isn’t delight in the story—if we had the choice, we would certainly prefer it didn’t happen. But the fact that it did provides ceaseless amusement, because the amount of cosmic irony that went into those situations is incredible.

            “Izzie had it right. Laughter is the right way to go,” I state when I can breathe.

            She’s composed again. She’s fast like that. “So then what happened?”

            “I freaked out on George? I spent a lot of time hitting my fists against my head, like any good surgeon does in times of incomprehensible stress. Except Webber: his stress induces anxiety attacks.” Sigh time. “George had a handful of suggestions and I explained in a rather loud voice that I was trying the best I could and was not sitting in the corridor for pleasant solitary time.”

            A tear forms. I feel it. Two tears, symmetrical, on my face. “I tried to get across to him that there was nothing we could do for Miranda because her husband was in mortal danger. I understood, because mine was too.”

            She embraces me tightly, enough only for me to breathe. It is precisely what I need. I have not told others of this pain before. It’s time for another downward turn to our conversation.

            “George was the one who did it. He talked her into it. The speech made my eyes water, he was so tender...” my voice chokes slightly. “I don’t think _I_ would have been able to perform as well if I hadn’t heard it. God, my heart hurt so much.”

            There is a hand on my head that sets to stroking. I just sit and remember, but thankfully the pain this time feels like healing. I’m in the arms of someone I love. It isn’t my first love, it isn’t the Dreamy one...it’s the Hardcore one who is in reality soft on the inside, soft and caring and perfect to and for me.

            She hums as I live in the world of memories for a moment. I swallow.

            “I knew everything was going to be alright when Bailey demanded George ‘stop looking at my vagajay.’”

            Erica smiles and pecks my lips, not quite ready to laugh yet. “Bombs and vaginas. All in a day at Grace.”

            I shake my head but squeeze her hand in thanks for the kiss. “I wasn’t okay when Bailey was. I ran to Derek when he emerged. He was asking, ‘Where is she?’ I pretended not to hear, but when I hugged him I heard Adele behind me whisper to Webber, ‘That’s not the _she_ he was looking for.’ I wasn’t.”

            I look at her with every vulnerability I’ve ever possessed scrawled across my face, dipping into my eyes and present in the slope of my lips.

            “Erica, if it had been us instead, and you had nearly died, what would we have done in the evening?”

            She knows I sometimes ask rhetorical questions, sometimes ones with simple answers, sometimes questions meant for witty, immediate responses. Erica also knows intuitively when I’m longing for a true-to-bone answer, something right from the heart.

            “I would have taken you home and held you all night, wouldn’t have taken a hand off you unless you wanted me too. I would have cried and kissed you and asked for hard then gentle sex.”

            “Do you know what he did?”

            “What did he do, Addie? What did he do, baby?” her tone is dark but sweet. It’s the first time she has ever called me baby, something I never thought she would do but is surprisingly wonderful now that it has happened.

            “He left to go visit Meredith. I cried. I knew I was over.” I cry again, clutching Erica close, my convulsing on her nothing remotely sexual. It is all hungry need for the intimate touch of comfort and knowing someone, someone special, someone _dedicated_ and filled with authentic _love_ is there. “I felt used the whole time, Erica. I hid it down deep below, but it was always there. He didn’t look at me the way he used to; he spent a lot of time looking over his shoulder. It was never the same as it had been before. But when he left to go see Meredith instead of staying with me, I knew his love for her surpassed his for me—if there was any left. It wasn’t my being selfish. It was us being through.”

            The speech takes me an eternity between tears and gasps for air. I cry for another few moments, releasing the pain I had previously only relieved without the embracing presence of requited love. She hums. I at last lay spent against her, relishing in the warmth of her more than the tub. Her warmth is human. She is still humming.

            “That was the apocalypse?” she buzzes against my ear before nuzzling it.

            “That was the apocalypse: the apocalypse for everyone with a resolution; the earnest beginning of the apocalypse for me.” I look up at the sky, quickly turning to dusk. “But you know what?”

            “What?”

            “I had a resolution too. It took a long time and the apocalypse was followed by hurricanes and tornadoes and other natural disasters, but I’ve reached a sanctuary.”

            “You have?”

            “Yes. Her name just might be Erica Hahn.”

            She blushes and smiles wider than I have ever seen, that special smile that only ever hits those she is wholly in love with. She used it on Callie once upon a time but it has grown wider since she has come to know herself further. I am thankful every day for that smile. It says, ‘thank you,’ ‘you too,’ ‘I love you,’ ‘this is right’ and so many other things all in once. It says, ‘you are the one who makes my heart shine,’ which I think is what her heart is doing when she uses that smile. I’m glad I hit sanctuary.

            “Stop it,” she commands me. I stare at her, confused, head canted again.

            “What?” I ask.

            “You’re thinking like Merder, I bet.”

            “Murder?”

            “Merder. Mer and Derek—that ridiculous ‘combine names’ habit you have for people in relationships.”

            I jab at her shoulder and pout the most adorable way I know how. She smiles again.

            “I was right, wasn’t I?”

            “Oh, shove a sock in it.”

            “Bomb or nothing.” She gets a jab to the other shoulder. She always has been good at crossing lines with no penalties. “And Addie?”

            “Yes?”

            “Aren’t you glad life is only like that at Seattle Grace?”

            I smile. “Undeniably. It’s like its own little vortex of reality, and we got out with just a few scratches.”

            Thank God my self-exploration is through for the day. Thank God I have _her_ to do it with. Doubly so...we’re in a hot tub. _My_ hot tub. And she’s not wearing any clo-othes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. (:


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